Nightmares and Regrets
by Nightmare1
Summary: Everyone has at some time felt regret. Sometimes, it comes too late. Read and review? Finished.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** Everyone has at some time felt regret. Sometimes, it comes too late.

**Genre:** General

**Rated:** PG-13/T

**Disclaimer:** The Scarecrow, Batman, Gerald Crane, Mary Keeny, Marion Keeny, and Karen Keeny are all owned by DC Comics. Ricky is too technically; I just gave him a name.

Caleb Wallace cameo'd with permission from Dr. Oranj.

**Background:** After a recent comic binge, I realized that we often see Crane's past through his eyes or flashbacks. What if some of those same events were seen through the eyes of a different party? And what if said party has had those same events effect him drastically? Also, this is the first time I managed to not use or reference _The Nightmare Before Christmas_. I consider this an accomplishment.

The events mostly follow the _Batman/Scarecrow: Year One_ miniseries, with some references to _Masters of Fear_.

* * *

Small clouds of dust kicked up and now and again my small Mercedes bounced and vibrated over the rough gravel. Arlen, Georgia was almost exactly as I had remembered it: the small farm houses separated by large fields, the shimmering golds of wheat and corn, the carefully arranged shops that had been there since at least the late 1800's. It was a small town where everyone knew everyone else, and still alive after all these years.

Some places were wearing down, while others had new life. As I drove down the path - freshly paved, it seemed, unlike most of the dirt roads here in town - the houses came closer together. I passed a post office and the fire department building.

I was heading to my old high school for a reunion. I was anxious to see some of my old friends, catch up on old times, and planned to go to a bar with some of the boys like we did in the days before college. I glanced up in the rear view mirror and adjusted it, then pushed a loose strand of dark brown hair back into place as I took the wheel again.

As I passed by the middle school, I saw a tree in the distance. Where other boys would surely think of youthful romps and games, using that tree for base, or even just shade from the hot Georgia sun, my mind went to one particular little boy.

A boy in small, fraying clothes, sitting there beneath the tree...

A boy hiding his face away in a book that most of us would think too thick to bother trying to read...

A boy noticing too late that he has been spotted, and that he has nowhere else to run...

I quickly shook my head, trying to banish those thoughts away. It was so long ago; it didn't matter anymore. Yet that boy never left my mind. In fact, he had been there for days.

I forced my attention back on the road.

_Focus on the road, Jordan, _I told myself. _Don't think about him now. You're here to relax and have fun!_

I smiled slightly as the boy disappeared from my mind. I would soon be at the reunion with all of my old friends and teachers. Most of our alumni would be attending. I knew Sherry Squires would not be there, not after the accident at prom. Bo Griggs probably wouldn't be there either; he never truly recovered from that night. And some of our other classmates couldn't be located. Nonetheless, I knew of one specific person who would most certainly not turn up.

In a way, I was glad he would not be there. After what I had done to him - what _we_ had done - how could any of us dare to show our faces to him? Ever since I got the reunion invitation and thought of how good it would be to see several of my old friends, it was like something in my mind was unlocked. With the good memories also came the bad. The shame of my past began to weigh heavily on my conscience, and I took comfort in knowing I would never have to share my guilt.

Yet at the same time, I kind of wished he _would_ arrive. It was like a weight fastened a chain around my heart and dropped, weighing more guilt that never went away. In a way, I _wanted_ to see him again, to look him in the eye, carefully grasp his trembling shoulders and tell him how wrong I was, that I was sorry for what I did. Even if I never got his forgiveness, I would feel better doing what I knew was the right thing.

But there wasn't much of a chance he would show up.

It was not because he wasn't invited, or that no one bothered to look him up. All of us knew what became of him; it was just that none of us had the courage to approach him.

Nor was it because he had died. Though, to be truly honest, it might have been better if he had committed suicide as so many of us once thought. I would have still felt just as terrible as I do now if it came to that, just as I felt terrible now for the things I once did to him...but it would have been more merciful to spare him the fate that he now faced.

No. I knew exactly why, even if he _had_ an invitation, he would not show up tonight.

He knew what we did to him. And after what we did, it is no surprise that he would never want to associate with any of us ever again.

From the first day of school, we saw his stick-like frame, the old, fraying clothes that never fit quite right, the unkempt brown hair, the large, fearful blue eyes that scanned the room as though something was watching him from every corner. We caught onto his fear, fed on it, used it to make ourselves superior. The taunts and jeers grew worse as each year passed, the cruel pranks growing more merciless as we learned new ways to make his life a living hell. We never gave a second thought to what we were doing to him, never had the concern that what we did would leave an impact that cut far deeper than the wounds and bruises we heaped upon him almost daily.

Our taunts and jeers and beatings and pranks did more than make him fearful. We made him an outcast, a leper in our school hierarchy. We drove him to vengeance, seeking ways to make us repent for our sins.

We did our worst to Jonathan Crane.

And in doing that, we turned him into the Scarecrow.


	2. Chapter 2

An old favorite song of mine came up on the radio. As I sang along, I felt grateful for the distraction. I didn't think as I sang. Old and new buildings passed by in a mishmash of centuries-old houses and modern shops. I still had a few miles to go before I reached the old high school. The song ended and went to commercial, and after trying to find another station and getting only oldies and static, I gave up and drove in silence for a while.

It had been days since I got the invitation, and with it came the occasional memory of my cruelty mixed in with memories of my friends, prom, and graduation. It just bugged me that ever since I got the invitation, memories of Crane came with it. There had been other kids we mocked - Caleb Wallace, the vulture kid, was another good target - but Crane was always our favorite. And now, for the first time, I was really starting to look back on what I had done to him.

Actually...if I said that, I'd be lying. I first _really_ thought about it when Abby came home from school back in fourth grade. Three other girls had cornered her two blocks from the school. They shoved her down, pulled her hair, stole her books and homework, and threw them in the mud. As I held her in my arms and went to reassure her, I learned this was not the first time they had picked on her; only that this was the worst incident so far.

Abby was a good kid: she got good grades, had a lot of friends, and her teachers adored her. It was just those girls singled her out and decided she was going to be their victim. When I asked why, she told me she didn't know, and asked if she deserved it.

I told her no. No one deserved to be picked on for no reason. And that was when I first realized Crane didn't deserve it, either.

Kids are cruel little snots sometimes. I should know, having been one of them. The irony was not lost on me, and I felt my stomach turn as it dawned. Maybe this was the Good Lord's lesson: what I had sowed, I now reaped, and the humility that I was once what my daughter now feared filled me with shame.

As I made the phone calls to the parents of these girls and the school, I began to think more about it. Why _did_ I do it? What lead me to think that tormenting someone the way we did was okay?

It scared me to know that I didn't have a real answer. Crane was weak and smaller than the rest of us, easy to kick around, and we got kicks from making him afraid of us. He was also a bastard, which carried a much heavier stigma in the sixties and seventies, and even more so in the Bible Belt. They weren't good reasons, but they were there.

I remember pushing those thoughts away as I made the phone calls and got the situation taken care of. Their parents were appalled to learn what they did to my daughter. The school couldn't do much except keep them away from each other in the day, and make sure the other girls left Abby alone. One of them got a week's detention for attempting to shove Abby in her locker, a prank her good old father was fond of back in his day.

I had another revelation. Aside from some teachers, no one really intervened - and sometimes, not even then. I remembered Coach Gray, for example, mistook some of our stunts for attempts to help Crane grow a bit more backbone and muscle. He was never good at sports, and a bit of rough-housing was considered good for him. But even as I set down the phone, I realized there was one more thing that gave us power over Crane, one thing that could have lessened, if not _ended_ some of his torment.

Unlike Abby, he had no one to stand up for him.

* * *

The Keenys - Crane's maternal family - were an old line, having been there since before the Great Depression. They were a wealthy, but strange bunch, with some of the strongest belief in the Good Lord in the whole town. They even had an old church on their property - one that fell to ruin before I was born and was no longer in use. At least, not publicly.

Karen Keeny's little folly with Gerald Crane was the favorite topic of local gossip back in the day. As we and our folks lived in the Bible Belt in a small town, it spread like wildfire, and was a favorite topic of sewing circles and groups of other teenagers, even if most of it stayed in whispers or private small talk.

Marion Keeny kicked her daughter out and left town soon after that, leaving her own mother, Mary Keeny, alone in that old, crumbling mansion with what little was left of their now-squandered fortune. Karen supposedly took to sleeping her way off the streets and eventually ran off with another man, or so the rumors told.

Even though it was before our time, we knew. We had all grown up and were gathering together for kindergarten. We knew Jonathan had no parents and lived with his great-grandmother, which already made him stand out. We later learned it was because he was the son of a whore. I think even subconsciously, we used this to justify ourselves. We were the good kids born in God's grace. He was just some tramp's son, and even _she_ didn't want him.

I had seen Mary Keeny a few times in town. She was a thin, spindly old woman who wore long, old-fashioned dresses - always black, even in the hot Georgia summers. She had a stern face, and all of her hair was pulled back into a graying bun. I couldn't tell you what she was like, just that in the rare instances I ran into her, I knew to keep away. As frail as she appeared, she radiated a kind of power that sent even the most hardy of men into shudders when she walked by.

In my few run-ins with her, she gave off a stern coldness. Her dark eyes always held this...this kind of _malice_, like there was something lurking inside of her. This was not a woman who loved. She _tolerated_, if that.

Crane was no exception.

Even more rarely than Mary's lone trips to town, I saw them both in town together. Crane almost never smiled at school, and when he was with his great-grandmother, his expression was somehow even more grim. Even as a teenager, he stayed near her side, always staying slightly behind her. Whenever Mary ran into one of her few -_ acquaintances_ would be the best word; the woman didn't have friends - he was a perfect Southern gentleman in their presence. The moment they stepped away, however, the moment he thought no one was watching...you could almost feel the resentment coming off of him. Yet he didn't dare put so much as a stray hair out of line when he was with her. _That_ is the kind of control she had, not only over Crane, but anyone foolish enough to cross her path.

Not once did this woman ever make a phone call, write a letter, or even come up to our front door to talk to our parents, as some folks did back in the day. Some might argue tough love. Who hasn't dealt with being mocked and humiliated at some point in their childhood? Others might say she was simply oblivious to it all. Crane was quiet at school; he could've very easily kept it to himself.

I think she knew. I think she allowed it to happen. And I think Crane knew well enough not to bother, for he would get no sympathy from her.

In a way, she gave us permission to do as we pleased.

* * *

I tried to push those thoughts away as I glanced to the invitation sitting on the dashboard. Inwardly, I scowled at it. I didn't want to feel this shame, and I didn't want to think about Crane anymore. I grabbed the open piece of paper and flipped it over so the words on the page no longer taunted me.

_The reunion_, I thought to myself._ Focus on the reunion. You'll see your friends, you'll forget all about this - hell, you'll probably go out and get drunk afterwards and bury it away again_.

I looked up as I turned the Mercedes onto a dirt road, suddenly feeling a bit more cheerful. I would be there soon to mingle with my friends and catch up on old times. Nothing was going to ruin this for me.

Or so I thought.


	3. Chapter 3

The school stretched out over the grassy fields as my car made its way closer. We were still a bit of a distance away, but I clearly saw the building, an old redbrick two-story high school. It had a fairly large parking lot, and a path cut through to the main road, but the rest of it was green with a few trees scattered here and there.

I found a space that was not too far from the school and parked. Judging by the number of cars here already, it seemed only part of our senior class was able to make it.

I got out of the car and looked over at the entrance where several people were mingling already.

Ricky Butcherson was here. He still wore an eye patch after that incident with the finch. So was Owen Thomas. He's put on a lot of weight since I last saw him. Dean Partridge, Sam Wilkins, Lenny Hobbs, Freddy Gilmore - so many of my old friends and classmates made it, and I found myself beaming with joy to be reunited with them.

"Hey, Schmidt!"

I turned to see Billy Black come up. Billy was one of my best friends back in the day, but we lost touch about three years after high school. He was a slightly short, stocky kid, not much taller now than he was in high school. His blonde hair was cropped and neatly combed to the side, and he wore some old but clean slacks and a polo. In comparison to my memory of a long-haired, pot-smoking rouser in jeans with holes in both knees, he certainly changed a lot.

"Billy!"

We ran up to each other and shook hands, then gave a quick, one-armed hug.

"Glad you could make it," I said.

"Yeah, me too!"

"It's been years. How come you never called?"

"I've been busy. Why haven't you?"

"Traveling. Business."

We walked down the hall towards the gym. As we walked past the lockers, Billy snerked and looked over at one set.

"I wonder if it's still there," he said.

"If what's still there?" I asked.

"I carved a little picture into the pillar over there," he said, pointing to one of the large divides that separated a group of lockers. He examined it, and grinned. "Yup. Still here!"

I came over to look. It was very small, probably scratched in with the tip of a safety pin. It was a dumb sketch of a stick figure with two horns coming off its head, and holding a badly-drawn pitchfork. I had to admit, I was a little surprised that no teachers caught it and had it painted over.

"Say, Jordan," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"Do you remember the locker prank?"

"What locker prank?"

"The one with the bird?"

I suddenly felt sick. I didn't want to think about it; I just wanted to get to the gym and enjoy the reunion.

"Yeah," I said.

"They never found out who did that, did they?"

"No."

"Any idea who _did_ do it?"

"No."

Billy laughed a little.

"I wish I knew. That was a good one, wasn't it?"

I quickly changed the subject.

"I think they're gonna start soon. Let's go see who else is here."

Billy nodded and started to walk towards the gym. I hung back for a few seconds before I slowly followed him.

_Why did you have to bring that up?_ I thought bitterly.

The locker prank had to be one of the sickest ones any of us had ever done. It wasn't by far the worst - there were many that could easily hold that title - but it was certainly the grossest, most disturbed prank any of us could have pulled.

It was just after lunch, and the halls were crowded. Crane always ate alone, as far away from the rest of us as he could. I don't remember if he chose the library to hide in, or outside in a corner of the school where no one else liked to sit. It didn't matter either way.

He walked up to his locker and entered the combination. Nearly every other locker required a bang or two to open; Crane's was especially bad because we were always slamming him into it or inside of it. After he fiddled with it for several minutes and got it open, he let out a terrified scream and jumped back. Everyone turned to look.

A crow, clearly dead from the rotting maggots falling out of its eyes, sprung out at him, its wings poised as though it were ready to attack. It was loaded on a spring, which was stuck to the locker wall with no less than four layers of duct tape. Feathers and maggots dropped from its dead body, and glistening red paint dripped from its beak. The inside door was also dripping red paint, with "NEVERMORE, SCARECROW!" painted in large, deformed letters.

Most kids were laughing. Some of them gave looks of disgust, and a few, "ewws" were heard among the laughter. For a few seconds, no one noticed Crane on the floor, curled up and with his hands over his face as if the dead bird was going to attack him. I saw him just as he was getting up, his face clearly red, his body visibly trembling, his belongings scattered all over the floor from when he dropped them.

No one bothered to help as he scrambled to get his things. He didn't even bother to shut the locker; he just grabbed what he needed and bolted down the hall to the taunts and jeers and - to the more savvy of us who picked up on his reaction - bird calls. He stepped on his own shoelace and slammed into another locker, nearly dropping his supplies again. After getting to his feet a second time, he turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

A teacher, Mr. Larson, came at that point and pushed through the crowd to see what the commotion was about. Everyone started to settle down as he made his way. Mr. Larson was one of those teachers that no one liked to mess with. We were all quiet by the time he saw Crane's locker.

"Who _did this_?" he demanded.

No one answered. No one owned up. Mr. Larson had all of the "usuals" come in, which was most of the football team, me, and a few others who were more or less known for picking on Crane. He couldn't get any of us to fess up, and he couldn't punish us without any proof, though he _did_ threaten to suspend the members of the football team if they didn't admit to it. It didn't work.

Crane didn't go near his locker for weeks. He tried harder than ever to avoid us, to pretend it didn't happen. But the damage was already done. The way he curled up and trembled and tried to defend himself - he gave away a weakness. And it was a weakness we would continue to exploit until graduation.

The teachers tried to locate the culprit, but they were never found. I knew, though. I knew who found that dead bird and brought it to school. I knew who managed to get the locker combination from the school records. I knew who sneaked out of class a little early just to rig it up and paint our favorite nickname inside the locker door before the lunch bell rang.

Even back then, I had the passing thought that maybe that time, we went too far. But I didn't speak up. None of us did, because as sick as it was, we all thought it was hilarious.

My stomach churned a little. I consoled myself because I eased up on Crane for about a week after that, but old habits die hard. I now wish that everything we did stopped then and there.

I blinked a few times as the memory faded. What was I doing?

Oh, yeah. The reunion.

Doing my best to banish the memory to back of my thoughts where it belonged, I quickly ran to catch up with Billy. We got to the gym shortly enough, and I was determined to not let Crane bother me for the rest of the day.

_Let it go, Jordan_, I told myself. _These things happened years ago. Nothing I do now will change it, and it's far too late to fix anything._

I heard laughter and music in the gym, and immediately, my mood lifted. I quickly ran to find Billy.


	4. Chapter 4

The gym was loud with music played by the bands of our time: the Rolling Stones, the Eagles, Aerosmith, Bob Dylan. I saw there were streamers decorated with the school colors. A fog machine gently covered the dance floor with little swirls of mist. Along one wall was a table full of refreshments, and some tables were set out with some games.

On one side of the room was a stage, and I smiled at some of the better memories of drama and improv. I remembered that during a performance of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, Dean Partridge's donkey mask fell off halfway through one of his scenes, and he managed to turn it into a joke. "Oh, the curse to have the head of an ass, but to lose it too!The delivery was great, and the audience lost it.

I glanced around the room. I saw Dean himself talking with Ricky Butcherson at one of the tables. Sean Wilkins and Lenny Hobbs were seating themselves with them, while Owen Thomas and Freddy Gilmore did a little friendly rough-housing.

The atmosphere felt so friendly and relaxed that almost immediately, I began to feel at ease. I had no more thoughts of Crane as I re-joined my friends.

"Small crowd," I said.

Lenny turned and smiled at me.

"We probably just got here early. Jordan, you do remember Sean, don't you...?"

I nodded, and joined in the conversation. As we talked of old dates, jobs, families, and what we planned for the future, I was thoroughly relaxed, my mood entirely lifted. Owen and Freddy had since stopped their childish horseplay and come over for drinks.

Several moments passed, and no one else had yet arrived. I didn't think too much of it. Any number of reasons could make someone late, and I was in such a good mood that little things like that didn't matter to me.

The lights suddenly went out in the gym, and the music cut off. The voices died down to murmurs as we wondered what was going on. Probably just a blown fuse; someone was sure to fix it. I turned back to Dean. Before I could get a word out, however, a loud_ bang_ made me jump and turn around. Several more bangs echoed in the room as the doors suddenly slammed shut.

I dove from my chair ran and to the door nearby, pushing my full weight on the handlebar. It barely jiggled. Locked. Scrapes of shoes and similar clicks and jiggles from my friends trying the rest of the doors echoed in the room.

Locked. All locked.

Voices of confusion rose and muddled as we all tried to figure out just what was going on.

"What happened?"

"Are we trapped?"

"Open up!"

"What's going on?"

"Why won't they open?"

"Let us out!"

We were all trapped and bumbling around in the dark, with only a faint light from one of the emergency exits giving us any illumination. As we tried to find each other, there was a crackling sound. We froze, and looked in the direction it spawned from. It seemed to come from the stage as a voice began to speak. How could that be? Didn't the power go out?

"Good evening, gentlemen."

I didn't recognize the voice immediately, but something about it seemed familiar. Around me, everyone quieted down.

"Look at you. _All_ of you. You have all grown and blossomed into _perfect_ flowers of society. High salary jobs, wonderful wives, even your own little _families_ to follow in your footsteps."

The voice paused, before it took on a twisted, bitter tone. I felt little shivers creep down my spine, like someone let loose an army of spiders down my back.

"...But even the prettiest roses have their _thorns_. And before this night is through, _all of you_ will have revealed yours."

"Who are you?" Lenny demanded. "What's going on?"

There were shuffling sounds in the dark as we tried to move closer together.

"Leonard Hobbs," the voice said in reply. "You run a business in Metropolis. A higher-paid executive at Teatime Imports. Am I correct?"

I couldn't see Lenny, but I heard him move, imagined him turning his head to face the voice. I could almost see him form a face that was some mix of confusion and pride.

"Yeah," he replied. "One of the best import businesses in town. What of -"

"You worked hard to get there, Leonard," the voice interrupted. "Or so it would seem to the public eye. There _was_ that little incident with Mark Thomson, who was - dare I say it - better qualified. But of course, that never stopped you. Not when you knew you could intimidate him into stepping down, going so far as to having a hand in his little _accident_. He is still in the hospital while you enjoy a life of _luxury_."

"Lies!" Lenny screamed. "I - I didn't do any of it! Mark wasn't looking where he was going -"

The voice interrupted him again.

"- And you used the opportunity to _push him_ into harm's way. Typical, Leonard. But then again, I've never imagined you'd ever evolve much beyond basic Neanderthalian instincts."

"Shut up!" Lenny screamed. "Just shut up!"

"Who are you?" Dean demanded. "What do you want from us?"

"Now, Dean, it would be unfair of me to only single out Leonard. You've found yourself in quite the romantic entanglement in recent weeks." A pause. "What would your mother say? Or better yet, your _wife_?"

"How do you -"

"Oh, I know. I've done my homework on every one of you. Sam Wilkins: you had that little legal dispute with your father-in-law. Owen Thomas: a bit of fraud that could ruin you if anyone else ever found out. Ricky Butcherson: more than one bout of trouble with the law..."

My skin felt cold, and I tried to keep from trembling. As the voice spoke, naming each of us and our crimes, I slowly realized why the voice sounded even somewhat familiar. Though it had changed and matured, and though I last heard it speak right before graduation, I heard the familiarity in the tone, the quiet tremor, the wording...

"...And you, Jordan Schmidt," it said, finally reaching me. "...How is sweet Lucy Prince doing? Or did she leave you when the illusion of Prince Charming fell through and she _finally_ saw the scum you were?"

My stomach turned, feeling sick as my suspicions were confirmed. It was _him_.

My mind flashed to something I read years ago, woke up something else that once bothered me.

Karen Keeny's little folly hadn't been the last of the Keeny scandals. Crane graduated as one of top of our class and attended a small local university, then graduated there and became a professor himself. His dismissal made the local papers. I couldn't tell you all the details; just that he fired a blank in class in to prove a point, and they canned him.

He went off the radar for years after that. At the time, I didn't think anything of it. Crane had always been strange, and now his strangeness cost him his job. So what?

He resurfaced again years later, a different man. Karen Keeny was still alive, and a psychotic killer named the Scarecrow hunted her down. She and her baby only made it out alive due to interference from the Batman. I still remember picking up the Arlen Times from my doorstep, sitting down to breakfast, and turning to page six. I can still see the headline - The Batman Stops Scarecrow Killer in Attempted Murder - and remember spitting out my coffee when I read the first sentence:

"The Scarecrow Killer - now identified as Jonathan Crane - was foiled in a murder attempt by the Batman last night."

It was no secret in that small town that Karen Keeny was Crane's mother. While the article itself is vague in my memory, three things still stick out to me:

One, it was a personal vendetta.

Two, _because_ it was a personal vendetta, what was stopping him from coming after his old enemies when he was done with his family? What if he came after _me_?

And three, he ran off a cliff on Karen's property and into the river below. No body was ever recovered, which left the possibility that he was still alive and at large.

I admit it. I lived in fear for a while. I had moved from Arlen to Florida, but I still kept up with news in my old hometown. Before his attack on Karen, he had also tracked down and attacked Marion Keeny and Gerald Crane, who had both had moved far from Arlen. Marion had even changed her name and lived a private life before Crane found and murdered her. If he _really_ wanted to, he could do the same to his other enemies.

Imagine my relief when he was apprehended almost a year later and locked away in Arkham Asylum up in Gotham City. I felt safer knowing he was contained, and never thought much of it after that. I had deluded myself into thinking Arkham - a place full of damned and lost souls, where the darkest of minds of humanity were kept away from innocent people - could hold him forever.

Now I was trapped and at his mercy. He had somehow learned of my most disgusting secrets. I wasn't the only one, but a deep bubble of hurt rose up in my chest. Lucy...Lucy Prince, the love of my life...what went on between us was private; how did he...?

"Show yourself!" Ricky screamed. "Come out now, you punk!"

Many of the others joined in, murmurs and angry yells demanding the identity of the voice.

"As you wish."

The speakers crackled off. In another minute, we heard a door on the stage open and shut. We only heard the footsteps because of the sudden quiet that encased the room.

A few dim lights flickered on the stage, lighting the tall, spindly figure from underneath. He was tall, just over six feet, with gangly limbs and a thin frame. He wore black pants that only exaggerated his thin legs, a black shirt with three buckles over the chest and sleeves rolled up to the elbows, finger-less gloves. A short cape draped over his shoulders, and his face was covered in a tattered cloth mask, stitched at the mouth and overshadowed by the wide brim of his tall hat. I couldn't see his eyes through the large, socket-like holes.

Seeing him only made my friends even more agitated. They were afraid. We were _all_ afraid, trapped in the gym with no way out, held prisoner in the dark, being forced to have our crimes outed to our once closest friends, exposed for what we really were...I had no doubts of who would do this to us.

"...Crane..." I choked out.

"What?" Ricky asked.

"It's _Crane_!" I said louder, exasperated. "Jonathan Crane!"

There were several hushed whispers among my peers as the realization sunk in. From the stage, I heard his quiet laughter, the kind of chuckles that one gives themselves when involved in a private joke.

"Our education system might not have failed _all_ of you," he replied. There was a casual air in his voice that I didn't like. "Did you come up with that on your own, Jordan? Or did you have to beat up someone smaller than you for the answer?"

The gym was quiet for a moment as it sunk into the others.

"The scrawny geek?" Ricky cried. I heard his voice turn to Crane, and barely caught his silhouette in the dim light. "You're getting revenge on us for what we did in high school, aren't ya, Crane? You always _were_ pathetic!"

He was trying to sound brave, but his voice quavered a little.

"This is not revenge for mere schoolyard pranks, Ricky," Crane said, casually crossing his arms. "_That_ would have been the finch. Admittedly, you were one of my better test subjects in my ongoing study of the nature of fear and its effects."

In the faint light, I saw Ricky reach up to touch the eye patch he wore. I knew a finch did it. I never knew Crane had a hand. Ricky probably never wanted to admit that weak little Crane managed to get a hit in.

"Then is this an experiment?" I asked. I tried to ease the tension a little. "We-we're pretty scared, Crane. Good one, you got us!"

I gave a nervous laugh, and heard one or two others join in and mutter in agreement.

"No," he said coldly. "Not an experiment this time. This is _indeed _about revenge, but not for your ideas of schoolyard fun. No..."

I felt more shivers down my spine, and felt someone's warm hand touching mine, and another friend's side pushed against me, protecting my own. All of us had moved closer, and the tension in the air was so thick, it almost hurt to breathe. I don't think any of us dared.

"...You destroyed me, ruined my life," Crane said. "And now I will do the same. All of the information I mentioned here, along with evidence to support it - pictures, documentation, audio clips - it has already been sent to the appropriate people. Bosses. Wives. The people you've scorned...and you will go back home and find _nothing_."

Though I couldn't see it through the mask, I heard the smile in his voice.

"Your worlds will never be the same, your ties and relationships will be ruined, and all of you will feel the _crushing_ humiliation of exposure."

"N-no...no!" Owen Thomas ran forward, infuriated. "I'll pound you, Crane! I'll pound you like I did before!"

Two of the others started to run after him.

"No - don't!" I exclaimed.

Owen didn't even manage to grasp the stage to climb on before he got a swift kick to the face. A sickening crack filled the air, and I hoped that nothing broke. I couldn't tell which of my other friends had followed Owen, but one of them managed to get on the stage. The dim lights from the edge of the stage barely allowed the rest of us to see what was going on.

My friend - I think it was Billy; it was hard to tell - threw a punch at Crane, but he ducked in time. Almost out of nowhere, one of his long legs came spinning under Billy's. Billy fell, and Crane grabbed his collar from behind. He smashed him into one of the speakers, then shoved him off the stage and onto the floor, only for my other friend - Dean, as I saw clearly - to try to apprehend him.

I knew Crane was fast - I had witnessed his speed in high school when he tried to break away from us - but what made him dangerous was that he was _deceptive_. One second, he would be on one side of Dean, the next, he would be on the other and greeting him with a punch. His movements were swift and graceful, his style...like a sort of violent dance. A dangerous dance, one that never let his enemy get too close.

At the height of their little battle, Crane whipped something off of his person and sprayed it in Dean's face. The contents made Dean cough, but in another moment, he began to shudder, and backed away from Crane. He cried out as he lost his footing on the edge of the stage, falling back and slamming his head into the floor. He blubbered and cried, and his form curled up as unintelligible stammers escaped his lips.

I wanted to run and make sure they were all right, but I felt rooted to the spot. I saw both of their shadowed shapes move, and was glad they weren't unconscious, but I prayed to God that they weren't bleeding horribly. I couldn't tell in the dark, and the lights from the stage showed only their dark forms.

Crane looked over at the rest of us, as if daring us to try to do better.

"I have learned a few things since high school," he said in that mocking, quiet tone. "Almost required with my frequent engagements with the Dark Knight."

_The Batman_, I thought.

"Now, then, gentlemen," he continued. "You may remember Messrs. Jackson Grey and George Dunstan. I left them both worse for wear. I can't say the same of Bo Griggs, however. His old heart couldn't take the_ fear_..."

I heard that twisted smile in his voice again, and felt my heartbeat start to pick up as the spiders crawled down my spine again. All three of them had been friends of ours...and Bo was one of Crane's worst tormentors.

I knew my friends were feeling that same clammy coldness, that sick disturbance as we realized we had nowhere to run, and there was nothing we could do against Crane. He could defend himself now, and whatever he had in that little canister had the power to bring any of us to our knees. This wasn't taking into account any other tricks he had in store - and given as he planned this, I didn't doubt for a moment that this nightmare was only beginning.

"...Let's see if any of you can do better."


	5. Chapter 5

No one moved. In the darkness of the room, the only sounds were the rustle of clothing as Billy and Owen got up to move away, Dean's terrified whimpers and jerking movements, and our own heavy breathing. Wisps of the rest of the fog from the machines formed around our feet, all the while Crane took his place on the stage, in the manner a maestro readies himself to begin an orchestra.

"It seems that tonight's festivities will be canceled," Crane said, an amused note in his voice. "The entertainment couldn't make it. We'll just have to make our own."

While his voice was calm, there was a certain cruelty in how he kept it so level and controlled. He jumped down from the stage and began to approach us, kicking away Dean's sniveling form. I flinched, and stepped back. Never before had my throat felt so dry, my muscles so weak, my heart so sick with dread. Goosebumps crept over my entire body, and it was all I could do to keep from trembling.

The uneasiness of the present company was so strong, one could almost touch it. All of us stayed together, though the fact that we easily outnumbered Crane by at least five to one gave none of us any comfort. We were bound to his demands, and he knew it.

"W-what did you do to Dean?" Freddy Gilmore spoke up, his own voice cracking. "What are you going to-to do to us?"

"I merely gave him a taste of what the rest of you are going to suffer before this night is through," Crane replied. He paused, pretending to consider something. "Actually, I'm surprised some of you haven't started already. You've all had ample time to socialize. And you've had more than enough time for my fear toxin to make its way into your lungs, merge with your blood, and race up to your very brain."

"You...you _poisoned_ us?" Ricky cried.

"If I wanted to do _that_, you would be dead already."

"How?" I cried.

I was visibly shaking now, and I started to breathe harder. Some of my other friends were already trying not to scream, and to my right, someone collapsed to the floor in sobs. The lights came back on, but my vision was starting to blur. It took all my effort to not fall to my knees, and with each passing moment, control began to slip from my grasp.

Sam Wilkins managed to answer my question.

"The fog machines!" he cried. "He spiked the fog machines!"

It made sense. Not all of us has eaten or taken drinks from the refreshment table. There was no guarantee any of us would have consumed enough to bother it. But the mist...we were all exposed to it, and we would all breathe it in.

"A plus, Mr. Wilkins," Crane said nastily.

He said something else, but I didn't catch it. By now, I was the last one retaining any sanity, though I knew it would not be for very long. I saw Crane approach me, but he was starting to change before my very eyes. Change...into _what_, exactly?

I closed my eyes to try to block it out, but that only made it worse. His fear toxin forced my mind to fill in the blanks, and I screamed at the terrible image that took its place. I couldn't describe exactly what I saw, but all I knew was it scared the ever-loving hell out of me. This is what finally forced me to join my friends on the floor.

"Do not try to resist it," Crane said, his form still morphing and distorting into some unspeakable horror. "Nourish the fear, let it _fester_ and grow, allow it to overtake you as your hearts race, your blood runs cold, and your minds bring forth your most private, intimate fears..."

The way he talked about fear, you would think he was a new father caressing his firstborn child. There was a loving excitement in his tone, a sort of sick joy as he watched our suffering.

"How I longed for this day...how I have _craved_ to see the very fear that once took control over me manifest itself into _you_."

The visions were getting stronger, and soon enough, my secretest, most private fears began to manifest before my eyes, morphing themselves into their own hand-tailored horror. For one brief second, rage overcame fear.

_You son of a bitch!_

It was the last coherent thought I had before the hellish images overcame me.

* * *

At first, the visions came in a blur. Dark monstrosities formed in front of my eyes. Where was I? Was I alone? I took a few steps, but the room - was it a room? - distorted all around me in a nauseating blur of color and readjustment of reality. I took another step, and everything shifted again, with my foot finding no ground.

I don't know how long I fell, just that the abyss opened up and sucked me in. I fell forever, with images and memories flashing around me, melting in and out of the darkness.

From the back of my mind - no, not my mind, my _gut _- my old insecurities resurfaced, memories and fears I thought I had overcome long before, and locked away where they could never torment me again.

My first day in sophomore year. Bo Griggs and the other football players had never noticed me. I wanted to impress them, be their friend. I never felt I was good enough to be in their league.

Caleb Wallace, the vulture kid. I tried to apologize to him once. I wasn't brave enough to say it to his face.

Coming home after school one afternoon, only to learn my father left that morning. He never came back. It was my fault; I caused my parents to fight.

A young boy sat under a tree, reading. I could have gathered the courage to make peace with him. I remained one of his worst enemies.

I made friends with some of the football players. A chance to impress Bo Griggs came up. I was too cowardly to complete the initiation.

Mother needed me even after I graduated; I chose to get married and move away instead. I never should have left her all alone; she's old and frail and I'm all she has left.

I tried to start a company. I was successful. Then everything went downhill. I couldn't face my wife and tell her I could not longer put bread on the table. Instead, I went back to an old employer, worked a miserable job while hating myself for failing.

Were those my own screams I was hearing in the background? Everything echoed so much, I couldn't tell anymore.

Down into the darkness I descended among vivid images, sinking lower and lower into my own personal Hell, with its own hierarchies and inner circles and increasingly heinous punishments.

"Jordan."

I didn't hear it the first time.

"Jordan."

The voice was familiar, yet somehow..._wrong_. I snapped my head from side to side, trying to find the source of the voice. I was still floating in the darkness, with glimpses of things that terrified me lurking just within my peripheral vision.

"Who's there?" I choked out.

Already, my voice was becoming hoarse.

"You _know _who it is."

I felt my body slam hard into the ground, but I made no effort to get back up again. I had finally reached the innermost circle of Hell.

I saw the shoes first: flat white leather, with flesh-colored pantyhose leading up to a breezy summer dress with little lilac flowers swirling in a delicate pattern as her long blonde hair cascaded down over her shoulders. The gentle blue eyes that once captivated me with love now glared at me with the bitterest hate.

"You weakling," she said. "Get up."

I tried, but it was as if my limbs forgot how to work.

"Lucy..."

She ignored me, and simply tossed a folder at my feet. Several papers slipped out. A glance told me they were court orders.

"I'm getting a divorce," she said calmly.

My mind felt numb. Did I hear her right?

Things weren't that bad...were they? We had a rough patch, we both said things we didn't mean. I got out of line, I hit her...and I recoiled immediately. It had been the only time it ever happened; she knew it wasn't me. ...Didn't she?

"Lucy..."

"I thought you had changed, Jordan. But you've always solved problems with violence, haven't you?"

My mouth felt as dry as sandpaper. I tried to answer her, but nothing would go past my tongue. I saw Abby appear beside her. Little Abby, just now shedding her childhood features, with her warm brown eyes and dark hair - my hair - gently pulled back into a ponytail. The look on her face remained indifferent. None of this seemed to bother her...and it terrified me.

"I am taking Abby, Jordan. And I am leaving." She pointed to the folder. "Judge's orders. You no longer have any custody."

I felt like someone threw a large rock at my stomach. I tried to get up, to even do so much as reach for the papers, but I couldn't move. Was it because I wasn't thinking clearly? Was it because I was still in shock and taking in what she told me?

She turned to leave. And it was as if my mind suddenly snapped back into place.

"Lucy! Lucy, wait!"

But she and Abby were already leaving. Abby looked back once, snubbed her nose at me.

"Maybe I'll get a _better_ Daddy this time. One who doesn't hit Mommy."

Those words cut me more than any knife ever could. Somehow, I found the strength to get up. I reached for them, trying to run after them, but for every step I took, they took two, and were soon gone from my sight.

Gone.

Disappeared into the darkness.

I would never see them again.

I fell to my knees in despair. The only girl I had ever loved...our beautiful little girl...gone, just like that...

Abby! Lucy!

Lucy...

I never _could_ do anything right.

* * *

As I came back to my original state of mind, I found myself sniveling like a child who just got his backside tanned. I had pulled my knees into my chest, and my body shook horribly as I tried to push myself up. My face felt wet - a combination of tears, sweat, and loosened snot. I wiped my nose on my sleeve, the last dregs of helplessness finally leaving.

Crane had by now taken one of the tables for himself, and was reclining back in a chair, his long legs using the table as a rest for his feet. All around me, my friends were coming out of their own private fears - uncurling, trembling as they too push themselves up, some already back on their feet and uneasy, as if their legs were made of jelly. Now that the lights were back, I was able to check on the friends who had tried to fight Crane before.

Owen's nose appeared to be at an odd angle, and dried blood caked over his mouth and chin. Billy and Dean both appeared shaken, but all right. I saw a dark bruise on Billy's forehead, and a small cut - probably from when Crane slammed him into the speaker. So far as I could tell, they didn't have any other injuries. I let out a breath of relief that none of them were seriously hurt.

No one dared to approach Crane. It was kind of a sickening feeling, a perverse distortion of reality how we all shuddered away from the man whom we once had no trouble tormenting. Truly the hunted had now become the hunter.

"Wh-what more do you want from us?" I choked out.

My throat felt so dry and hoarse from my own screams. I worked up some saliva and swallowed it to try to wet it. I didn't dare try to get a drink from the table.

"We are going to play one more little game," Crane said.

The room went quiet except for heavy breaths, and Crane's chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back to stand up.

"I take it by now you are all aware of what I am capable of," he said quietly. "I could destroy you all right now if I so chose."

He started to reach for something in his coat. Lenny, still shaking, took a step toward him.

"You're bluffing," he said quietly.

Crane looked up at him, his hand frozen in place for the moment.

"Am I?"

"You said you wanted to ruin us," he answered.

Some of the others caught on.

"Yeah, Crane," Ricky sneered, though his voice didn't sound as brave as he tried to be. "Can't do nothing if we're_ dead._"

"I never said _that_," Crane said. He let go of whatever he was reaching for and approached Ricky. He leaned down to him, lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "There are _many_ ways to destroy a man, Ricky. Perhaps you are aware of the meaning of a fate worse than death?"

Ricky's one good eye went wide, and he moved to throw a punch at Crane. Crane caught his hand and squeezed, the eyes of his mask matching up with Ricky's. Ricky started to wind up another punch with his free hand, but he held back as if thinking better of it. Crane yanked back on Ricky's hand, then shoved him away.

"Now, then. One of you once gave a dead bird as a gift. I should very much like to repay the favor."

He found what he was looking for and fiddled with it. It was a small white object, an electronic of some sort. He then set it down on the table nearest to him. It was a countdown set for five minutes, and it was already counting down.

"The culprit has five minutes to confess," he said quietly. "The rest of my fight is with him alone. The rest of you, I will let go back to your miserable little lives, alive and safe."

We all felt the wave of relief. Freddy started to say something.

"It was - !"

Crane cut him off.

"_Only_ the culprit. I want to hear it from his own lips. If anyone else outs him, then consider my _merciful_ offer withdrawn."

"And if he doesn't...?" Sam asked.

"I can promise that you do _not_ want to find out."

Crane gently tapped the counter to make his point.

The room went quiet again as the hollow eyes of the mask caught each of our gazes, stared for a moment, moved to the next person. I caught the glare as he came to me. I remembered those light blue eyes so vividly from the terror I used to put in them. Now they formed into an embodiment of malice, with an edge of familiarity. I couldn't quite pinpoint where I saw that look before, but it didn't matter, as Crane broke his gaze from me and moved onto Billy.

The little red counter ticked away. We had about three and a half minutes.

I felt sick as the numbers slowly ticked away. Any way you sliced it, _someone_ was going to suffer. None of us wanted to think of what Crane would do to the poor schmuck who confessed..._if_ he confessed. But if he didn't, we would _all_ take the fall. Did Crane possibly know who did it...?

We had less than two minutes. No one could take the dread any longer.

"It was - " Billy started to say.

"Me!"

All eyes turned to the source of the voice. Small gasps and whispers of unease broke the silence.

I trembled as I faced my friends. Years of guilt and regret clung to that one simple word. I couldn't let Billy lie and take the blame, and I couldn't risk him ruining the chance for the others. Three slow claps came from Crane's table.

"Well done, Jordan," he said. "You're less selfish than I imagined. I'm impressed."

"You knew."

"Of course I knew."

"How?"

"You dropped something."

I could almost see that smile under his mask. All around me, my friends were watching me, wide-eyed, mouths agape. The entire room held their breath as he reached into his coat and pulled out an old varsity pin.

"I found this behind my books as I gathered my things. How fortunate I did too, because I do believe I foolishly left the locker open for _anyone_ to just peek inside..."

"It could have _been_ anyone's."

"The list of suspects was rather limited, and I noticed this was missing from _your_ collar, Jordan. Your direct avoidance of me for the following week only sealed it for me." A bit of quiet laughter. "...Is it possible that you _actually_ recognized the atrocity of what you did?"

Something inside me bubbled over. All this time, he could have done something. I never _needed_ to be buried under the guilt the pent itself up for years, I never _needed_ to feel sorry for him! He did this on purpose! He could have stopped everything right then, right there -

"You never said anything!" I screamed. "You knew who it was! You could have gotten your revenge _then_, Crane!"

That casual tone that I was learning to hate came back.

"Would it have made a difference?"

The rage I felt quickly dispersed. I looked over at my friends, and the uncomfortable silence came back as we all slowly came to the same conclusion.

No. No, it wouldn't have.

I would have gotten reprimanded. My father would have done anything to keep me from being expelled. My friends would have taken their vengeance on Crane for getting me in trouble. That was how things worked. He couldn't have done anything then because we had all the cards. Now the tables have turned.

"By the way," Crane said, indicating the timer on the table. There were only three seconds left. "Time's up. For _all_ of you."

The last second ticked away, and a loud, shrill whistle - like a scream - erupted from the device as thick clouds of smoke poured from it. He tricked us! He never intended for _any _of us to get away!

We all tried to run toward the doors. Kicked and punched and jiggled at them to try to get them open. I could feel Crane's eyes watching us as we coughed and choked and fell to our knees. I was one of the first to collapse. I felt hazy and delirious as the smoke swirled around me. I saw Crane approach me as I saw the forms of my friends fall on either side. His hand reaching for me was the last thing I saw before my vision went black.


	6. Chapter 6

When my vision came back, it was still dark. Was I awake? And if so, how long had I been out? I tried to move, but found I couldn't move my hands or my feet. At the very least, I was awake; there was just no light in the room. Again, I tried to move. I realized quickly enough that I was tightly bound to a chair. I couldn't move my wrists, and my ankles were bound to the legs. I tried to tilt the chair itself. It was bolted to the floor.

"Where..." I croaked.

My throat was still dry. I tried to work up some saliva, wishing for all the world to have even just a sip of water.

I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The last thing I remembered...the reunion...a timer...gas...I could pick out some shapes, possibly boxes. It appeared to be some sort of large storage room. A warehouse, maybe?

Up above, very faint light shone in from two small windows. It was dark outside, with thick gray clouds blocking most of what little light was there.

"H-hello?" I choked out, coughing a bit as I spoke.

I saw some movement to my right. I could make out a table. There was a dim light coming from it, but I didn't catch it at first because of the figure standing in front of it.

"So you've finally come to."

Crane was bent over the table, concentrating intently on some of the papers he had scattered there. By his silhouette, I knew he was still in costume. I saw glass bottles and vials surrounding his form on the table, and some small machines - one of them looked like a sort of microwave - on either end. His lab, I realized. The little light in the room came from a single votive candle that was on its last stub of wax. Crane didn't seem the least bit bothered by the faint light. Maybe he liked the spooky atmosphere.

I swallowed again, trying in vain to wet my throat.

"...Where are we?"

"That's none of your concern."

I looked around for my friends, to see if anyone else was awake. And in doing so, I quickly realized that Crane and I were the only living souls in this room, except for maybe some bugs and rats.

"What about the others?"

He picked up some of his papers and made a few minor corrections.

"Don't worry, Jordan. I kept my promise," he said, making another note to himself. "Your imbecilic little friends have likely by now woken up and called the police...not that it would do them much good, though I should suspect they all have other things on their minds."

My voice cracked from the dryness as I spoke again.

"Why gas all of us if you only wanted me?"

"One of the first lessons in crime, you simpleton: never leave behind any witnesses."

It made sense; none of my friends could tell the police anything that happened after the timer went off. And knowing Crane, he would have been careful enough to not leave any leads.

I watched as he finished writing and turned away from the table. He went over to another part of the room and grabbed something, though I couldn't see what. I heard something slosh as it was poured into a glass. In another moment, his form disappeared and reappeared in the shadows. I heard his footsteps approach, caught the smell of some chemical residue and hints of straw from his costume. I knew he was right in front of me, and I felt something cold and hard at my lips.

"Drink," he insisted. "It's only water; you have my word."

I could smell the briskness of it, and my poor tongue craved the moisture it would bring, but I didn't trust him.

"Why?" I asked, then quickly shut my mouth in case he tried to force it down my throat. I didn't want to risk exposure to anymore of his fear-inducing chemicals.

Crane didn't force me to accept it, just held the glass there at my lips.

"Because I want you refreshed. We have things to discuss, Jordan..."

I saw him lean in slightly more. I could barely make out the holes in his mask, saw his eyes shine behind them.

"...Right before I make you _scream_."

I believed him. I still hesitated, but my thirst was so great, I gave in and accepted the offer. He carefully tilted the glass, and I drank. I could taste the plastic aftertaste of the bottle it originally came from - it must have been stored there for days - but I didn't care, and greedily sucked down every drop. I didn't expect any other act of kindness from him; this form of charity was only coming from his alternate motive to torture me. He pulled the glass away.

"More?"

I nodded, a little shaken. He got me another glass, and that too went down my throat as quickly as the first one. I didn't ask for anymore.

Crane set the glass down on the table, took another glance at his notes. For a long while, there was silence between us, save for the occasional clink of glass as he moved vials and a few clicks and whirs as he toyed with some of the machinery. I pulled at my bonds, but they were so tight, they felt like they were cutting into my skin, and I stopped trying. Finally, he finished his work and turned to me.

"You are wondering, then, why I brought you here."

"...The crow," I said quietly. "The dead crow in your locker."

"It isn't just that."

I was almost afraid to ask the inevitable.

"...Then what else is there?"

He turned around to face me. The little candle flickered with the movement, slowly working off the remaining wax. Crane pushed some of his papers aside, hoisted himself up on the table. In the dim light, his Scarecrow mask almost resembled a skull, with its dark sockets and stitched mouth, the shadows giving the details that the mind's eye would form into a hollow nose, leering teeth, pale cracks over the crown...

Another uncomfortable silence hung in the air as he collected his thoughts. Then at last, he spoke again.

"All I want to know is _why_, Jordan."

"Why...I did it?"

"Why you did everything."

I went quiet. I didn't have a good answer, and I knew it. Yet I knew I couldn't sit here and not answer him. What _could_ I say to that?

"I was...I was young and stupid," I said half-heartedly, knowing he wouldn't buy it. My very brain ached as I struggled to find the right words. "We all thought it was funny...it was just...it was just so _easy_..."

It was all I could do to force myself to keep facing him, to prevent myself from hanging my head in shame. The entire time I spoke, he watched me, never moving so much as a finger as he listened. My chest heaved, and I forced back tears. I wasn't going to cry - not in front of _him_.

"...I'm so sorry."

What else _could_ I say to him? Was this what it had been like all those years? To feel weak and helpless, and to not have a friend in the world to take your hand and pull you out of the abyss?

"Then it was all a game to you," Crane said.

It wasn't a question. I nodded, feeling a bit hot around my wrists and collar as sweat began to build. I watched as his slender fingers gently stroked one part of his arm. And the boy from inside my mind came back.

The boy in small, fraying clothes, sitting there beneath the tree...

The boy hiding his face away in a book that most of us would deem too thick to bother trying to read...

The boy noticing too late that he had been spotted, and that he had nowhere else to run...

The boy at our mercy when we found him, begging us to leave him alone...

He succumbed easily, made no effort to defend himself, for it would do him no good.

It was like kicking a scarecrow.

Ricky forced him into a headlock, held a burning match near his face, gave him a choice. Him or the book...

And Jonathan Crane, while begging for mercy and crying, chose to let us hold him down and burn him so the book would be spared. I can still hear his tortured screams.

It was only one instance out of many times we had made his life a living hell - one of many that would shape him into his final fate. But that wasn't the prank that sent him over the edge. That wasn't the one that cut deep into the heart of his other inner demons.

Crane still hadn't moved. If I didn't know any better, I could have mistaken him for the very thing he resembled...a scarecrow, sitting all alone on that table. An eternity passed before he moved again, resting his arms on his knees, leaning towards me. The brim of his hat hid his entire face in shadow, a darkness that even that little candle could not penetrate.

"Do you understand what you did that day?"

I swallowed hard.

"I hurt you."

"You have done worse than that."

I took in a breath, gulped, tried to keep my lower lip from trembling.

"Crane..."

He turned away.

"You _exposed_ me, Jordan."

The bitterness that dripped from his tongue enveloped me, weighted my guilt further. I hung my head as I spoke again, no longer able to look him in the eye.

"I never meant anything by it, Crane! I never knew - "

He cut me off.

"You thought that it would have been just like any other time. You would conjure up a new way to torment me further. You would point and gawk and laugh with your pathetic little friends at my expense."

My eyes felt wet. I tried to push it back.

"...Am I correct?"

I nodded.

"Say it."

I couldn't hold it back anymore.

"...Y-yes," I said through trembling lips.

All of the guilt and shame I felt, all of the years of it eating away at me...it bubbled over in that one little word. I was a grown man, and I was crying like a helpless little boy. I knew he was watching me. And I didn't have the means to care, just tried to gain control of myself. Crane reached over to something I couldn't see. I heard the clicks of a few buttons. He then waited until my sobs quieted, until my lips stopped trembling.

"In a way, I should be _thanking_ you," he said quietly.

I looked up, trying to figure out what he meant. Thanking me...for what? For terrifying him? For showing the whole school he had a phobia of birds? That I had, as he put it, exposed him? I was about to say something, but Crane answered me as if he had read my mind.

"Granny was my first teacher in my lessons in fear," he began.

_Granny_-Mary Keeny. That bitter, hateful old woman - that tall, wiry spider whose numbing venom came in the form of the power she commanded with every movement. I looked back into his mask, caught his gaze, remembered that malicious look he had given me earlier. And then I realized why that look was so familiar. Mary Keeny may not have been proud of it - she might not have ever even admitted to it - but her great-grandson, whether he intended it or not, shone with her bloodline.

I had no doubt the old woman was dead. I had never before pondered her fate; she was such a recluse that no one thought anything of it when she stopped coming to town. Perhaps she had gotten too old, perhaps she was an unnamed victim of the Scarecrow.

"It was _she_ who taught me that fear could be used to control, by anyone, and in any way. Nor would she be the last. The late Professor Pigeon helped me hone in my knowledge of fear and its effects of the human psyche, and I have since proven I have learned my lessons _well_."

I didn't like what he insinuated with that tone.

"But_ you_, Jordan..."

He paused, then leaned in. Even though that hideous mask covered his face, I knew he was smiling. I heard it in each word.

"...You exposed me," he said again. "And in doing so, you taught me one more great lesson: that fear could be used to _destroy_ one's enemies. All one has to do is reveal to the world the hideous truth buried in the darkest reaches of their minds...some would say inside their very _souls_."

The blood rushed from my face as he spoke. I don't know if he saw it by that one tiny candle, but as the color drained from my face, my heart felt sick and leaked into my stomach. My whole body trembled, and I tried to force myself to remain steady.

"What _is_ it you hide behind your mask, Jordan?"

That amused note in his voice...he knew the answer to that. He had pulled it from my screams, and he had heard my confession just moments ago. He was just toying with me now. I watched him, wary of what other plans he had for me this night.

"By the way...there is one more thing you should know."

He walked over to another part of the room, pulling something from his pocket. I could not entirely see what he was doing due to a stack of boxes blocking my view, but I heard a key turn, a deadbolt slide away as the lock clicked. The door opened, and Crane gently beckoned to whoever was in the other room.

A small figure stepped inside.

"...Daddy?"

I felt my heart leap into my throat. This couldn't be! Abby was with a friend this weekend, safe and nowhere near here! Crane went over to the other end of the room, found two more candles and lighted them, making the dim light grow a bit stronger.

And as she stepped closer to the light, I saw her clearly. Abby was dressed casually - jeans, sneakers, T-shirt - and her long brown hair fell into her eyes. The look on her face was a mix of confusion, terror, and sorrow.

"H-how did-did you - ?" I stammered. I glared at Crane. "Let her go, you...you - !"

I didn't finish that sentence. What I _wanted_ to say, I didn't want my daughter to hear. I watched as Crane turned to me.

"It was simple," he said, answering my question. "I was able to _relate_ to her."

I watched him go over to Abby. Gently take her hand. Lead her over to where I was bound and let her go.

"I learned of her troubles," he continued, "and shared my own. She was surprised to hear that her _esteemed_ father was once like the girls who tormented her. She didn't believe me at first. I set out to prove it to her."

He motioned toward some other equipment that I hadn't noticed before - it had been hidden in shadow, and only the light of the additional candles revealed them.

"She heard every word, Jordan," he said quietly. "She heard your confession. She knows what you did. She knows you were once a cruel little hellion, a tormentor like Elizabeth, Jacqueline, and Tasha. And she now knows for certain that _you_ were once what she fears."

He reached up and pulled off his hat, the mask coming off with it. For the first time in several years, I saw the face of the boy I once tortured, the face that once cowered from me in terror. He still wore the same short, unkempt hairstyle he did as a boy, though it had thinned a bit with age. His blue eyes burned with a twisted passion, his mouth formed into a satisfied smile, and the rest of his features distorted into a cruel, evil look of triumph.

Crane set the mask on the table, and I watched as he picked up another object-a pair of glasses, square frames, half-lenses. He slipped them on, then turned back to me, put a hand on Abby's shoulder.

I seethed with rage at the sight of him touching her at all. I knew he could practically sense my hate. I didn't care.

"Get away from her," I snarled.

He only smiled a little more, before the look turned to one of concern. He turned to Abby, then back to me.

"Tell her, Jordan," Crane said, gently pushing Abby in my direction. "Tell her the truth. Tell her how at your age, you would have been the one _joining_ those girls."

"...That was a long time ago, Crane."

"And you regret nothing."

It wouldn't have been true ten minutes ago. Ten minutes ago, I was ready to take whatever punishment he felt like dishing out while knowing I deserved it. But ten minutes ago, he hadn't revealed that he had kidnapped my daughter too. Ten minutes ago, he wasn't using her for his own sick gain.

"...Is it true, Daddy?"

Her voice was so quiet, so timid, that I almost didn't hear her. I looked over at Abby, and for a second, my rage went away. I started to say something, but Crane spoke first.

"Go ahead, Jordan. _Lie_. Tell her you regret it all. Tell her those empty, hollow words as you struggle to soothe your own conscience."

I tried again to speak up, but the words died before they could pass my lips. I looked over at Abby.

"...Daddy?"

I couldn't lie to her. I forced my gaze away from her, hung my head. In the corner of my eye, I caught her trembling as she realized that Daddy had lied to her, and the strange man beside her had told her the truth. I didn't want to admit it, but I felt defeated. It hurt me even more to know that Crane had won.

"...How does it feel, Jordan?" he asked, his voice once again growing quiet. "How does it feel to be exposed for what you _truly_ are?"


	7. Chapter 7

Crane turned to the numerous vials on the table. Abby looked between the two of us, stopping to look at me. I have never seen her so scared, though if it was me or Crane or just being in this whole situation, I couldn't tell.

"Daddy..." she said quietly.

"Unlike your little friends, Abby," Crane said as he set aside some larger vials, "Daddy got away with being a bully. He will have to be punished."

There was a small cloth on the table that held some tools, and from these, he selected a small syringe. I watched as he pressed the metal needle into the bottle, pulled back the depressor to fill it. He then turned to face me.

"Wh-what are you going to do?" Abby squeaked.

Crane ignored her, took a step in my direction. I couldn't move much, but I leaned away from him as much as I was able. I had a good idea of what it was, and I didn't want that needle anywhere near me.

"It's not what _I_ am going to do," he said quietly. "It is about what _you_ are going to do."

He handed the syringe to Abby. I saw her hands shake as she held the glass tool in her small fingers. Crane gently turned her to face me. He carefully placed his hands on her shoulders, knelt down to her level, almost whispered into her ear.

"This concoction will show him _precisely_ what he's done," he gently told her. "Show him, Abby. Show him what it's like to be someone like us. Show him what it's like to feel helpless, to be mocked and tormented and all alone."

It took all of my resolve to keep calm.

"Abby..."

She faced me.

"Don't listen to him," Crane said. "He _lied_ to you, Abby. He doesn't know what you went through. _I_ do. Show him, Abby. Help him understand."

"But I _do_ understand!" I shot back. I turned to face my daughter. "I understood those girls were hurting her - the same way I once did to someone else."

Abby fumbled with the needle, finally managing to get a hold of herself. She looked up at me. I needed her to trust me.

"He's lied to you before, Abby," Crane breathed. "He's telling you exactly what you _want_ to hear."

I glared, but forced myself to keep my voice level.

"It's the truth, Abby."

"You told me you saw him hit your mother when he didn't get his way. It got out of hand, didn't it? He yelled and screamed and almost threw - the lamp, wasn't it?"

I felt simultaneously enraged and sick at how he learned of some of my more private instances. Lucy had been just as bad in that fight. While we still had other rough patches to go through, we had at least forgiven each other for that horrible incident.

"Hitting and screaming and throwing things," Crane said coolly. "He hasn't _really_ changed, has he? Your _poor_ mother. It's no wonder she's briefly separated herself from him."

Abby was trembling now. Like the serpent who tempted Eve, Crane spoke with a fluid smoothness, picking the right words to lure her into temptation. She grasped the needle tightly in her hands and turned to me. Her face - I almost couldn't bear to look at her. There was an angered hurt in her features, tears that were threatening to come.

"Do it for your mother, Abby," he said. "Do it for her...and do it for yourself."

Crane let her go. I watched as Abby walked toward me, raised the syringe. She was going to do it, I realized. God in heaven - she was _really_ going to do it!

"Abby..."

I wanted to move. I couldn't. Abby stopped right in front of me. I faced her, braced myself. She came closer, the syringe drawn in front of her like a sword. Behind her, I saw Crane's triumphant smile.

"Abby," I said again. "Don't let him force you into anything."

I saw her lips quiver, her whole body shake. She lifted the syringe, moved to bring it down...and lost the courage.

"I...I don't want to," she said, finally. She turned to Crane. "I don't want to hurt him."

I watched him, expecting the smile to waver, that calm demeanor to melt away into fury that his manipulation didn't work. I would have preferred it if he did; the way that smile never faltered made me feel even more unease.

"Then you don't have to."

He came up behind her, gently took the syringe away, and ushered Abby away from me. I saw him position the syringe, hold it up to my neck.

"Please - please stop!" I heard Abby cry out.

Crane ignored her. The cold metal made me shudder as it touched my skin, but before he could plunge it into my flesh, I felt his hand yanked away. He turned to see Abby had grabbed him, and with unexpected ease, he pushed her away.

I cried out as Abby fell back, but she wasn't hurt, just startled. She got back up and grabbed his arm again.

"Leave him alone!" she cried, desperately trying to pull Crane away from me. "Leave my daddy alone!"

Again, he pulled himself from her grasp, but this time, she didn't stumble away. She had his attention now, and was backing away from whatever wrath that was incurring inside that demented mind.

"Leave her alone, Crane!" I yelled, trying to direct his focus away from her. "Deal with _me_!"

He grabbed her arm, pulled her into him, used his own arm to pin her neck and shoulders to his body. Abby reached up and grabbed his arm, trying to pull it away. He held the syringe at her throat, then turned to face me. I pulled against my restraints, trying once more to free myself. How badly I wanted to wipe that smirk from his face!

"I _am_ dealing with you, Jordan."

The needle went a little further into her skin, but the depressor remained unchanged. Abby let out a quick whimper of pain as her lips began to tremble. She stopped struggling against Crane.

"Stop it!" I screamed.

"Make me stop."

My anger deflated and was quickly replaced with fear - not a chemical concoction, but real, genuine _fear_. I racked my brain. He was seriously going to hurt her if I didn't talk, and fast.

"...Please," I begged.

I didn't know what else to do. Crane was a lunatic; there was no negotiating with him. Yet I knew for her sake, I had to try.

"Let her go, Crane. I'm the one who hurt you, not her. Have mercy!"

I caught the wild look in his eyes, and his smile began to fade away.

"Mercy," he sneered. "Merely a _word_ to you. And where was your mercy when _I_ cried for it? Where was it when I begged and pleaded and groveled at your feet for my torment to stop?"

Abby screamed as he jammed the needle through her skin. I watched his thumb hover over the depressor, fearing the worst if I couldn't make him back down.

"It _has_ no meaning to you, Jordan," he continued. "Not until _you're_ the one who needs it."

"Crane - "

"Go ahead, Jordan. Lie _again_. Tell her everything is going to be all right. Give her that false, desperate hope."

She was crying now, and trying so hard to be brave and keep it back. My heart shattered at seeing my daughter in that much distress, and my hatred for Crane spread through every fiber of my being.

"A-Abby..."

Should I obey him and lie? Should I tell the truth? Or was he going to do it no matter what I did? My heart felt sick with fear, but I didn't know what to do. It was all I could do to keep from breaking down myself.

"Please...Crane..."

I adjusted myself, trying to make my bounds even slightly more comfortable. My throat started to dry again; I swallowed hard before I spoke.

"...I'm a liar and a fool. I'm a bully, and I'm willing to take whatever punishment you see fit - just let her go."

For a long while, none of us moved. Abby's quieting sobs were the only sounds any of us made.

"Please," I said, finally, trying to keep my voice level and calm. "She's innocent, just like you were. Let her go, Crane. This is just between us."

I saw him hesitate. I had hoped to strike a chord with him, and as he pulled the syringe away, I breathed a small sigh of relief as my gamble paid off. Crane let Abby go and shoved her away from him. She hurriedly ran away from him, moved out of my sight behind a crate pile. I still heard her quiet sobs as Crane came for me. I closed my eyes and braced myself.

I felt the cold steel prick the back of my neck, the liquid in the syringe disperse its contents into my veins. It all happened in about a second, but as I tried to pull away, time seemed to stand still. My mind was ablaze with thoughts. Hadn't he already unlocked my worst fears? Was he going to do it again just for kicks? Was it a different kind of serum? Or was this something else?

I tried not to panic. That was what he wanted, I knew. I had to stay calm. Whatever the injection was, I had to fight it.

I had never felt so frail, so weak. The injection relaxed my muscles, almost to the point of uselessness. I felt the ropes loosen as Crane undid the knots. My whole body felt jellylike and queasy as blood and fear serum rushed through my veins. I practically fell off the chair as I tried to stand.

And that's when the nightmare began.

I heard voices around me - taunts, jeers, mockeries. All around me, friends, family - people I once knew and trusted - they were laughing at me, taunting me.

I begged and pleaded for them to leave me alone.

They all surrounded me, growing bigger and more terrible with every word they uttered. I tried to run, tried to _scream_. I felt them grab at my limbs and yank as though ripping them off. I felt them kick and punch and tear at my hair. And in my helplessness, I let them.

_Fight it, Jordan!_ my mind screamed. _It's not real! FIGHT IT!_

But I couldn't. It was as if all of my emotional strength had been drained.

An ugly scarecrow loomed over them, towering over us all. It broke away from the cross that bore it, its twisted fingers reaching down in the midst of my loved ones, its sharp claws coming for me. Tendrils of straw shot from under its sleeve and wrapped around my body. I cried out in pain as it crushed me in its grip, yanked me away from the family that pulled back on my limbs in a horrible tug-of-war.

And then, before I knew it, I was all alone. The fingers and straw that once held me shot over me and welded together like the bars of a prison cell. The palm that held me in its grasp become a hard floor. I looked to see what else was there.

Nothing. Only darkness.

I grabbed the bars of the cage and tried to yank them apart, but they refused to budge. I cried for help, for someone - anyone - to help me. Now and again, a shadow appeared. I called for them. And as I called, they took form.

Lucy. Abby. Billy. Ricky. Dean. Owen. Lenny. Sam. Freddy. My parents. People I knew, people I loved.

None of them looked at me. None of them gave a second glance, only went on with whatever was going on in their own lives. It was as if...as if...

...As if I never existed.

I yelled and screamed and cursed to no avail. None of them heard me. Even Crane appeared once or twice; he paid me no heed either.

I was all alone and helpless. I no longer had a friend in the world.

I tightly clung to the bars of my cage. I tried once more to get anyone's attention. And all the shadows faded away into nothingness.

Was this it, then? Was I going to die here, trapped and alone, with no one to reach out, to give a damn about my existence?

Several moments passed as that thought sank in. In another moment, I gave in to the hopelessness and despair, collapsed to the floor. I actually broke down and cried.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

I loosened my grip on the bars of my cage, resting my head against the concrete floor. I knew I was beaten; there was no point in trying anymore. All I could think about were my failures.

_You're going to die, Jordan_.

The voice was small, a little whisper of reason struggling to be heard among my other tortured thoughts. I didn't want to die, not now, and not like this.

_Then why are you _letting_ yourself die_?

There was no point in living anymore.

_Is there?_

No. I failed to protect my daughter. I failed to protect _myself_. And even if I lived through this, Lucy would never forgive me for that, and she would leave me permanently. My life was ruined. There was nothing left I could do.

_Nothing?_

Nothing.

_So you're just going to give up. You're going to let him win._

He already has.

_Has he?_

I didn't know. I didn't know anything anymore.

My vision flashed, and for a brief second, I saw my hands clinging not to prison bars, but the metal legs of the welded chair, before it reformed into prison bars.

This wasn't real. None of it was. Yet still, I felt afraid, rooted to where I was in my terror, clinging to those prison bars with my very life as the darkness opened around me like a demon waiting to ensnare me in its jaws.

I don't know where I found the strength. I just knew I couldn't let Crane win - I couldn't let him hurt me or Abby anymore than he had already.

I could feel the fear and despair rising inside of me. A lot of it was artificially induced with Crane's toxin, and some of the visions I had earlier came back. But some of that fear was very, _very_ real, unlocked and set free not only by the drug cocktail that now slithered through my veins, but through the knowledge that my worst fears really_ were_ happening _- had_ happened - right before my eyes.

Crane tried to take Abby away from me. She almost took his offer, she almost chose my enemy over her own father. I almost lost her, and that was something I had hoped I would never have to face.

_But you didn't_.

I felt my eyes well up with tears as I tried to push myself up, feeling my muscles give in. Abby was vulnerable, and I was unable to protect her.

_He'll hurt her if you do nothing._

But what could I do? I was at his mercy, beaten down like the dog I was. He had the ace up his sleeve; I didn't even have a hand to play.

_You aren't beaten yet, Jordan. Abby is counting on you. You have to save her_.

How could I? I was weak and alone - I couldn't even help _myself_, let alone her. I curled into myself, trying to force the nightmarish images back in the dark reaches of my mind where they belonged. The despair and terror tightened around me. Never in my life had I wished so badly for death.

_If you give up, he wins. Then it's _really _over_.

And as I had that thought, I was somewhat able to force myself up. My arms trembled under my own weight, my whole body shook as I struggled to pull myself to my knees, and a strength I never knew slowly started eat away at the weakness that kept me down.

Crane was going to take her from me, ruin my life in the worst way possible. He was going to make me go home and face my wife, force me to tell Lucy that I couldn't protect our daughter. He was going to put me through a torture that no parent should ever have to go through, wonder if Abby would ever be safe, think about the damage he could be doing to her mind, lead her into a life of crime that could only ruin our hopes - and hers - for her future.

I was on all fours now, forcing myself to face Crane. My mind was hazy and I couldn't think. Illusions clouded my vision, though through some breaks, I could see Crane's form watching me, heard his voice taunting me, saw his foot come to kick me down further. I couldn't avoid it, and I fell.

_Get up, Jordan_.

The voice was stronger now, that last bit of sanity I was able to hold onto. I could feel the hot tears leaking down my face, taste the filth of the snot that ran down my nose and over my lips. I was a broken shell of a man, and the more I fought, the more the nightmares flashed before me.

I couldn't do this. I was a failure, and Lucy would never forgive me for this. I knew I should just give in; the torment would lessen if I would just succumb. Yet something inside me refused. Pride, maybe? Anger? I reached out my hand, pulled myself a bit closer. Crane's foot came at me again, and again, I fell.

_You're going to be beaten by this punk, Jordan_. _A scrawny little scarecrow brought you to your knees...and you're just letting him do it._

And that's when it started. The strength that started to come blossomed even more. The terrifying thoughts and the horror that came with them were still there, but..._different_, somehow.

_He hurt you, Jordan. He hurt you and your daughter. And if you give in, you let him get away with it._

I grabbed the chair, used it to steady myself and pull myself up. Crane was approaching me. He was going to hurt me again, I knew. God in heaven, he was going to do something terrible. My mind conjured up several images: broken fingers, a snapped neck, flesh being ripped from my bones - oh, God, Crane, please don't hurt me. Just leave me alone. _Leave me alone!_

He reached for me.

And I lashed out.

My fist felt his ribs, and he fell back, just as startled as I was. I grabbed the back of the chair to steady myself. My feet found their grounding, and I was able to stand. Crane got up, faced me. And slowly, his features melted from shock, to amusement, to a calm, quiet smile.

The bastard was actually _smiling_. He was enjoying this, I realized. It didn't matter what I did to him anymore; I couldn't hurt him like I used to do, and he knew it. He was mocking me, _challenging_ me.

I was only too ready to deliver.

The man before me was no longer a tortured little boy who had done nothing wrong. He was a lunatic who hurt me and my daughter, violated my most personal thoughts, and would stop at nothing until both my mind and my daughter's were shattered beyond repair. Gone were any thoughts of sympathy and regret. He deserved none of the pity I'd once foolishly given him.

Because in doing that, I had been the one to let him hurt me and Abby both.

Finding the courage to let go of the chair, I dove at him, knocked him to the ground, blindly threw my fists anywhere I could hit. I felt something hard crack and cut me - his glasses, I realized quickly enough. He hit back, kicked me, tried to throw me off. Old reflexes kicked in as I grabbed his hair and snapped his head into a position that made it easier for me to hit him. He grabbed my fist before it could make contact, squeezed, barely kept me from pounding his face.

Claws grew from his fingers and painfully sank into my flesh. I screamed as I tried to pull my hand back, but his grip tightened as the claws burrowed into my arm. His eyes burned with fire, and his mouth filled with sharp teeth, jaws snapping to bite me.

_It's the fear serum, Jordan. It isn't really happening._

But it was. Everything looked - and felt - so real!

My hesitation cost me as his knee shot up into my stomach, forcing me to release my hold. He threw me off and got up. I grabbed his leg as he tried to flee and yanked, and he fell face-first into one of the crates as he came down. I saw the dark red smear on the wood, the remains of the glasses fall to the floor in pieces, and when he turned to face me and try to kick me away, I saw the long trail of blood flowing over his lips and staining the top of his costume.

Crane's eyes locked onto mine with the fury of an unleashed demon as he pushed himself up. His free foot hit my hands and forced me to let go, and in another second, he was back on his feet and running toward a darkened corner of the lab. I scrambled to my own feet and chased him. He grabbed something from the corner, and a long flash of light shot up as he raised the object high. A scythe, I quickly realized. One that was about to come down on my head.

I grabbed at the handle before he could bring it down, tried to ignore that his hands had become skeleton. I heard Abby's distorted screams behind me, but I couldn't focus on her right now. I had to take Crane down, and I had to do it quickly.

Crane and I each wrestled for control of the scythe. His form shifted as the fear serum continued to meld with my mind, and he shifted from his normal form to a horrendous version of the Grim Reaper, then back again. The other visions were no longer as strong as they were before. Was it wearing off? Or had I found a way to counter it?

I shoved him back into the wall, jammed my knee into his stomach to knock the wind out him. He loosened his grip, and I yanked the weapon away, releasing my knee and using blunt end to knock him to the floor.

Crane started to get up, tried to grab for me. I slammed the handle of the scythe into his hand to pin it to the floor. He cried out and tried to kick my legs from under me. I pulled the scythe away, took a few steps back to avoid being hit.

"Stay back," I said, holding up the scythe.

My heart was still pounding from the rush of adrenaline. My whole body felt hot, and I gripping the scythe so hard, my knuckles were turning white. He turned away from me, cradling his injured hand into his body. My mind flashed again, and for a brief second, I saw him as a boy again. The hand I had injured had been the same one we had burned those years ago.

I tried to push the thought away, to bury that brief bit of guilt that resurfaced. My grip loosened a little as I lowered the scythe. The rush I felt was gone, weariness began to seep through my mind, and my body started to register the pain I received in our fight.

He kept his injured hand close to his body, turned away from me. I watched him as he trembled, curled into himself. Had I beaten him?

A small sound escaped his lips. A pained moan...that slowly formed into quiet laughter. Using the wall for support, he got back to his feet.

"Still a bully," he said quietly.

He wiped some of the blood from his face on the back of his glove. There were a few small cuts in his face from when I broke his glasses.

"Such a good example, Jordan," Crane sneered. "I wonder what your _daughter_ thinks of that, hmm?"

"She saw you hurt me," I said, doing all in my power to bite back my anger. I couldn't afford to let him get to me like that again. "Congratulations, Crane. You've become a bully yourself."

"I had an excellent teacher."

I saw his good hand quickly pull something from his coat. Without thinking, I swung the scythe to knock it away. The back of the handle hit his hand, and he let go of a canister. I dropped the scythe and tackled him before he could go for it. The little canister rolled away. I struggled to keep him pinned, reached to grab it, but knocked it away.

"No!"

Crane reached up, grabbed my neck, squeezed, forcing me to release my hold. He threw me off and scrambled to get the canister. I grabbed his ankle. He stumbled, but this time was able to keep his balance as he tried to kick me away. I pulled again, and he fell, but was able to brace himself as his body made contact with the floor. I stood up and grabbed his collar. I didn't hold back as I slammed him into the wall, punched his stomach, moved up to his ribs and face.

It was satisfying, and I let myself enjoy the new rush of adrenaline that surged through me as I threw him to the floor and savagely beat him down. The old thrills I once felt came back as I delivered another punch and refused to let him get a move in. If I broke something, I didn't care. He tried to crawl away from me. I delivered kick after kick. It was still as easy as kicking a scarecrow.

I grabbed his collar again and forced him to his feet. And I grinned as I saw flecks of long-forgotten terror rise in his wide blue eyes.

Without a second thought, I threw him into the lab table.

Vials and equipment slid off and some of them shattered as Crane crashed into them. The candles went out as noxious chemical fumes filled the air. I heard a despaired cry in the dark, and I waited for my eyes to adjust from the faint and only light coming from the two small windows. The clouds had moved in time, and a faint glow from the moonlight lit that part of the room just enough to see.

I found the canister that Crane had dropped before. I saw his trembling form on the table, watched as he shoved some shards of broken glass away from him. Many of his notes had scattered. I grabbed a handful of them from the floor, tore them to shreds right in front of him, and another weak, despaired cry escaped his throat. I knew I had taken the last of the fight from him as I finished destroying the only things here that he deemed precious.

Crane pushed himself up, slid off the table, tried to steady himself. Judging by how his body shook, I had beaten him badly. His legs gave way, and he collapsed to the floor. He lifted his head as I approached him, and he scooted away from me until I had him backed into a corner. I watched as he curled away from me, held his arms up in defense.

I had started this whole mess years ago. I was going to end it now.

"I should hurt you, Crane," I said, taking another step. Never before had I felt such rage, such _hate_. "I should crush your little skull and kick you around like the _pathetic_ little _scarecrow_ you are."

He was weak now, disarmed of his fear toxins and unable to defend himself. As I towered over him, observed his bloodied face and pained movements, my mind flashed to several memories back in high school, with me approaching him, knowing he was at my mercy...and with him just the way he was now, cowering at my feet and hoping I wouldn't hurt him any more than I already had. The only difference was he was innocent back then. And as I took another step, everything that had happened in the past two days - the reunion, the kidnapping, Abby - they were all the justification I needed to slip back into old habits, to assert myself and show him who was boss.

I held the fear canister and aimed it at him. I fingered the trigger, ready to spray it and make the bastard suffer a taste of his own medicine. My body trembled as I fought back to urge to kick him around some more, to grab his hair, pull him up and punch his face like I used to do. My finger began to sink onto the depressor, only a millimeter from releasing the menacing contents.

"But this has to stop, Crane. One way or another, this can't go on."

I swallowed hard, allowing the silence to linger. It would be another minute before I found my voice again.

"...Jonathan..."

I kept my voice level, controlled. He stayed in that fetal position for another moment, then uncurled just enough to look up at me. His eyes went to the canister, then back to me. And almost as if on cue, I threw the vial away, where neither of us could get to it.

"...I never should have done what I did to you," I said, my voice trembling.

I had played this conversation in my head several times. And each time I played it, the words flowed right out of my mouth, articulated into a perfect apology. But now that I had my chance to do it, I struggled to think of the right words to say. I swallowed again. I had already taken the first step. It was time to follow through.

"...I never meant to expose you like that. And you may not believe it - you don't even have to forgive me - but I've had plenty of time to reflect on what I've done. And if I could, I would take it back. _All_ of it."

I carefully extended my hand towards him. He hesitated and visibly flinched away from me. I caught the wary gaze, that look of mistrust. Crane - _Jonathan _- studied me, as if trying to decide whether or not this was a trick. For what felt like eternity, neither of us spoke or moved.

At last, I watched as he pushed himself up, lifted his own hand...and slid it into mine. His fingers were thin and slender, and gave off a chill that I felt even through his glove. Though he trembled as his fingers curled around my hand, his grip was stronger than I expected.

I don't know if he forgave me. I may never find out, and personally, I don't really care. But in that moment, all of the years of hate and bitterness and loathing, all of the rivalries, pranks, and torment - it was all set aside for that one brief second of understanding. I helped him up to his feet, and as soon as he had steadied himself, he pulled away from me.

We both looked at each other, our expressions mirroring the man each deemed his rival. Both of us were in disbelief at the new understanding we had for each other. Jonathan broke his gaze from mine, grabbed his Scarecrow mask and hat from the floor where they had fallen, slipped them back over his head. Under the mask, his eyes narrowed, and he turned away from me.

I watched as he disappeared into the shadows, his movements quick, but still pained and stiff. I waited, feeling my heart beat harder as I listened for him, prepared myself for a retaliation that never came. His hastened footsteps faded away. I heard a door open and slam, and I knew he was gone. There was silence for several moments, and I realized I was holding my breath. As I let it go, I turned to go find Abby.

She was in the room where Jonathan had kept her before, still shaken and scared as I knelt down to her.

Abby looked up at me. In the dim light, I could see the wet streaks down her face. She shuddered away from me at first, then reached for me. I forced myself to smile, more to reassure myself than her. It didn't last, but it didn't need to.

"We're going to be okay," I promised.

I cradled her in my arms and lifted her up, holding her close to me. As her slender arms slipped around my neck, I broke down into sobs. We were alive and safe, and we were free.

"It's over," I said, holding her close to me. We're going home."

* * *

Ever since that night, my life had changed. The weight I had carried for so long had lifted, but new challenges quickly replaced the old.

First, there was an explanation to Lucy about how Abby ended up coming home with me when she was supposed to be staying with a friend. The police were called, investigations were done, tests were run on me and Abby to make sure none of the Scarecrow's toxins would have any lasting effects, Abby and I both made weekly visits with a therapist. The media circus that came with it was almost too much to handle. Things finally settled down after a few months, and slowly, my life returned to normal.

I looked up my friends and learned of what became of them: Mark Thompson learned that Lenny was involved in his accident and successfully sued him. Dean's affair entirely ruined his marriage, and he was found dead at his desk the next day, his finger still on the trigger. The fraud Owen committed earned him a few years in jail and the loss of his job.

But not all of them had a tragic ending: The truth about Sam's legal dispute with his father-in-law forced them to work things out. Ricky cleaned up his act and now helps out troubled teenagers. Even Freddy and Billy turned the experience around to their benefit.

I never pressed charges or testified against the Scarecrow. In a way, I thanked him for what he did. He forced me to deal with my guilt, and in doing that, he freed me from it. And in forcing us to face the darkest, most disgusting parts of ourselves, I think he made most of us into better men.

Now and again, I heard news of the Scarecrow - Jonathan Crane - and his unending battle with the Batman. He would create a fear scheme, Batman would find out and stop him, he would be sent to Arkham Asylum. At some point, he would escape, and the cycle would start all over again. I no longer fretted about any news of the Scarecrow being at large anymore. I was safe in my little home in Florida; Jonathan was causing his mayhem up in Gotham City. We had an understanding of sorts; he never came after me again.

It would be several years later when the news of the Scarecrow finally started to die down. Had he given up crime? Had he died in the latest caper? Had he simply gotten too old to continue these games with the Dark Knight? I didn't know, and I didn't care. Once I made peace with my past, I stopped following the stories entirely. What little I knew about them, I stumbled upon by chance.

I am getting up in my last years now, with my sweet Lucy at my side. After that terrible ordeal, I had a new-found appreciation for her, and she came back to me. Abby now has her own family - she married a good man and has two kids of her own. I hadn't thought of any of this in years, really, until this morning.

I received a small package in the mail. There was no return address, but there was something small and slightly heavy in the envelope. Wondering what it could be, I tore it open and shook the envelope in my hand.

An old varsity pin fell out, pinning a piece of straw to a small note. I glanced at it, my eyes tracing over the small, clean penmanship.

"_This belongs to you._"

There was something else written on the back. I flipped it over.

"_Never fear._"

There was no signature.

I don't know if this means Jonathan has finally forgiven me, or if there's another meaning that only his warped and twisted mind can decipher. I can only hope that he, too, has finally found peace with himself, and that this gift is the final step in securing it.

* * *

**A/N:** I would like to thank those of you who took the time to review this for me. Each one means so much to me, and I am pleased to know that you have enjoyed this story so far. I truly hope the ending was to your liking.

A special thanks especially to Neuschwanstein Princess on Gaia for being my beta.


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